


Second Chances

by izazov



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Inspired by Fanart, Love Confessions, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Tony Stark Feels, because author has no idea how abdominal wounds work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 21:59:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11860470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izazov/pseuds/izazov
Summary: Tony Stark is in love with Steve Rogers. Also, he is dying. There is no direct correlation between those two facts. But there is also the matter of Steve Rogers having no idea about Tony’s feelings.





	Second Chances

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Cap IM Tiny RB Round 6 and inspired by [Commander](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11713596) by Shaliara

There is pain, of course. There is always pain. Tony is used to it by now. It comes with the territory of being a superhero.

Or maybe it is part of the whole Tony Stark package: genius, billionaire, playboy, superhero, alcoholic, gets hurt a lot.

It wouldn’t look well on a calling card. Doesn’t make it any less true, though.

So. Pain. As far as Tony’s experience with it goes, this one doesn’t merit a place in the top thirty. It feels muted. Like a distant echo of the real deal.

Tony knows what it is. It isn’t like this is his first rodeo. His body is going into shock due to the massive internal tissue damage and internal haemorrhage.

In short: Tony is dying.

Not his first time, at that. Not his favorite pastime, though. 

Tony ignores the numbers and warnings flashing at him - he knows the armor is practically useless, depleted of power, he doesn’t need to see the technical side of it displayed along with medical scans telling him he is dying - and brings his hands up to his helmet, pulling it off.

It… yeah, it takes far more effort than Tony hoped it would. Leaves him panting and slumping heavily against the large chunk of concrete behind his back, the helmet falling from his loose grip with a loud clang.

Tony drags in a shaky breath. It leaves his mouth as a shaky wheeze as a twinge of pain shoots up from his right shoulder. Rolling his head against the large chunk of what had once been a wall, probably, Tony looks up at the sky, trying to breathe past the pain. Trying to think.

Tony is good at that, thinking. Fixing things. Building them from an idea inside his mind. But right now, his thoughts keep circling back to the fact he is slowly bleeding to death.

There is a teeny-tiny chance the Avengers would come _before_ he kicks the bucket. There is also a chance Tony has only himself to blame they haven’t come already. He knows ‘help, I’m dying’ would have generated immediate response; no matter how badly the battle was going. That’s why Tony omitted the dying part. He is regretting it somewhat now. Just a bit. 

Dying really sucks.

The indignity of his current position - pinned to a slab of concrete by broken pieces of rebar like he is some kind of an overgrown butterfly - doesn’t help in the least.

Tony tries shifting his position… and yeah, not a good idea, that. Pain flares low in his sternum, pulsating bright and hot along what seems every nerve ending in his entire body. His vision goes dark for… well, Tony cannot know for sure, but probably only a moment or two.

“Okay,” Tony rasps out, trying to collect himself. He leans his head back against the concrete, shuts his eyes. He is getting worse, his pulse is racing, his breathing has turned short and irregular, and he can feel cold sweat beading on his forehead and the back of his neck. Blinking his eyes open, he grits his teeth. “You need to get it together, Stark, you can’t die like _this_.”

After surviving Onslaught, dying after taking down an overgrown lizard… ironic doesn’t even begin to cover it. Were he not otherwise occupied, Tony would find it amusing.

An accident. That is how all this started. A moment of distraction from Reed Richards, which resulted in portals opening all around New York, spewing creatures straight out fantasy novels.

Big, angry, frightened creatures.

Chaos ensued rather quickly. Cap’s plan of containing the creatures and minimizing casualties and damage was shot to hell on the first contact.

Those creatures were nothing like the usual run of the mill villains. They had no goal, no strategy, no demands. Just instinct.

Which, basically, amounted to destroy everything in sight.

Tony throws a glance at the end of a tail stretching out from underneath the rubble. Well, Tony did manage to down whatever it was - smallish dragon? really large lizard? - in the end. All it took was a building. Quite possibly Tony’s life as well.

Craning his neck, Tony looks up. A tight knot of dread starts to unfold from within his chest when he doesn’t spot a single winged shadow darkening the sky. The sounds of the battle - Thor’s thunder and furious growls of the creatures - have quieted.

A heavy breath leaves Tony’s lips as his body sags against the concrete. They’ve done it. Won the battle. It is done. The wave of relief that crashes over him almost takes his mind of the gravity of his current situation.

A tiny glimmer of hope flickers to life inside him. If the battle is over, someone is coming to answer his call. Maybe there is a chance he’ll get through this. He’s survived worse.

He simply needs to hold on a little longer. He can do that. Take a breath, take another, and wait.

Someone will come. The Avengers always come.

A quick glance down confirms what Tony already knew. His armour is dented, scratched and broken. The left gauntlet took the worst damage in the battle; it is almost entirely shattered, leaving his most of his forearm bare.

Tony’s face twists into a grimace as he studies the broken pieces of rebar sticking from the armor: one just underneath his right shoulder and the other going clean through his abdomen. If he moves, tries to set himself free… yeah, it’ll hurt like hell.

And - other than sparing his dignity - it will serve no purpose. He’ll only bleed out faster.

Huffing out a frustrated breath, Tony sags against the concrete. The movement triggers another flash of pain low in his abdomen, dragging a pained hiss from his mouth.

Tony clenches his teeth. He cannot tell is he trying to stop himself from crying out in pain or helpless fury.

He is Tony Stark. He is Iron Man. He cannot die like this.

He probably will, though.

Tony allows his eyes to drift shut. He wonders, faintly, who will come to find him.

He hopes it will be Steve.

He hopes it will be anyone but Steve.

Familiar pang of longing twists in the middle of Tony’s chest, throbbing in perfect harmony with the weakening beat of his heart.

Over the years Tony has become adept at… well, not quite ignoring the feeling but learning to live with it.

By now, it is familiar to him as breathing. An essential part of who he is: Tony Stark, in love with Steve Rogers.

Well. That, too, would make a lousy calling card material.

Not that Tony has any intention of disclosing that particular truth. Least of all to Steve.

They are friends. That is all they will be. That is all they can be.

Tony is fine with that. More than fine. Having Steve’s friendship is worth everything. Even making a mangled mess of his own heart.

_Everything, Stark? Remember Guardsmen? Remember Mentallo? What is your next fuck-up? You know there will be a next fuck-up- There always is, with you. And one day, he’s not going to shake your hand over it._

A clang of metal against concrete makes Tony snap open his eyes. For an instant, he is uncertain whether or not the familiar figure standing in the wreckage of Tony’s making is real or just a figment of imagination, conjured by Tony’s guilt and longing.

Steve stands perfectly still, more a statue than a man. His uniform is covered in grime and blood, and torn in places, but the sight of him - tall, proud, bigger than life - still has the power to steal away Tony’s breath. Even now, when he really doesn’t have a lot to spare.

Steve’s cowl is still on. It does nothing to cover the wide-eyed shock and terror on Steve’s face as he stares at Tony. 

“Sorry for bailing on you, Cap,” Tony manages, forcing his mouth into a grin. He would shrug, too, if he didn’t think it would end in him whimpering in agony. “But, as you can see, I’m a bit stuck at the moment.”

It’s an extremely inappropriate joke, but it snaps Steve out of his unnatural stillness. He lifts his hand up to his cowl, starts barking orders. His voice shakes.

Tony tunes out most of what Steve is saying. It takes energy to assign meaning to words. Energy Tony would rather spend on watching Steve. He forces himself to at least try.

Steve is talking to someone - Thor? - on the comm. Tony’s vision is getting a little blurry and it takes too much effort to concentrate on Steve’s words but Tony thinks he hears _ambulance_ and _urgent_ and _get here now_. Something soft and aching twists inside Tony.

Steve wants to save him. Steve always wants to save everyone. Tony doesn’t have a heart to tell him that not even Captain America can save everyone.

Not that it would matter. Steve wouldn’t listen. Steve would try anyway. Steve always-

“ony? _Tony_!”

Something cool and smooth is touching Tony’s cheek. Instinctively, Tony nuzzles into it. Sighs. He keeps his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to wake up. There is… pain, muddled and distant, just on the edge of his consciousness. There is also a voice; loud, insistent, terrified. Tony knows that voice. It is familiar voice. Safe voice. Tony likes that voice.

And it is calling and calling and calling- 

Tony blinks his eyes open - he doesn’t remember closing them - and meets Steve’s gaze. Steve has his cowl pulled back and he is cradling the side of Tony’s face with his gloved hand, and he looks afraid.

Steve doesn’t fear anything. 

“Tony,” Steve says, and it’s like those four letters are made of pure relief. He stares at Tony with a look Tony has never seen on his face; raw and vulnerable. Lost. His fingers are trembling against Tony’s face. “Don’t-”

Steve doesn’t finish the sentence. His voice breaks. Tony watches as his throat works as he swallows. Watches as emotions play across Steve’s face.

He looks miserable. He looks angry. He looks helpless.

And then he takes a deep, steadying breath, and his face sets into a steely resolve.

He pulls his hand away, curs it into a fist and lets it fall by his side. His other hand is gripping a piece of rebar in a white-knuckled hold.

Steve’s face is bloody, cut and covered in dirt, and he is so very beautiful.

Just like the first time Tony laid his eyes on him on that submarine and the impossible became the truth.

Steve is talking. Firm, soothing, “Help is on the way. You just hang in there, Tony. We’ll get you to a hospital. You’ll be fine.” Steve breaks off. Lifts his right hand, reaches forward, but stops himself a few inches away from Tony’s chest. A pained grimace twists across Steve’s features, ripples across his body as a near violent shudder. Tony can hear a groan of metal from where Steve is still gripping the broken rebar. “They’ll fix you. And when they do, we are going to have a long talk about why exactly you didn’t think to share the extent of your injury.”

This is Tony’s cue. He knows how this goes. He makes a joke or he waves a careless hand, and then Steve grits his teeth and tells him he is being a reckless fool and he cannot-

Tony knows the steps to this dance all too well. He also knows he doesn’t want to play the part. Not now. He is all but run out of time.

His left hand moves, fits against Steve’s cheek almost without Tony’s conscious thought. Steve blinks and goes very still.

“I’m a selfish asshole, you know,” Tony begins, smiling, every single one of his resolutions melting away. “You lost everything, your entire world and I’m happy it happened.”

The words - the truth - leave Tony’s mouth with no effort whatsoever. Steve’s forehead creases, confusion and dismay flickering across his face. _Abort_ , a tinny voice in the back of Tony’s mind screams, _too much, you’ll ruin everything_.

Tony ignores it. He is dying. What is the point in holding onto this truth _now_?

“The day we found you was the best day of my life,” Tony says, soft and quiet. He strokes Steve’s face with his thumb. Steve exhales a sharp breath, his eyes going wide. His hand moves, fingers closing around Tony’s wrist. “I was so happy. You were lost and miserable and all I could think about was how fucking lucky I was.”

Steve’s eyes drift shut for a brief moment. He is still holding onto Tony’s hand. His fingers are trembling.

“Tony, don’t-- keep your strength,” Steve says in a quiet rasp that sounds nothing like his voice. His eyes are open wide. The look in them is edging into panic. “We’ll talk later. When you’re better. We’ll talk about anything you want.” His voice hitches on the last word. He swallows, thickly. “Just hold on, Tony. Can you do that for me, Shellhead?”

Tony knows how this would have happened in a world in which Tony Stark is worthy of Steve Rogers’ love. They would be in the Mansion and Steve would look at him and smile. Call him Shellhead and hold out his hand. And that would be it. Easy, simple, natural.

This is not that world. And in this one, Tony has a rapidly declining number of breaths to say something he knows he should take to his grave.

But Tony is selfish and he wants to say it, just once, just this one time.

He is tired of holding this truth locked deep inside himself. Tired of wrestling with his own damned heart.

He is so very tired.

He is also nearly out of time. His lungs are starting to fail and he is slowly losing feeling in his extremities. He can barely feel the softness of skin underneath his splayed fingers. His vision is starting to blur.

Tony blinks, feels something wet slide down his cheeks. It isn’t blood, it’s not thick enough.

“Tony,” Steve breathes out. It sounds like a plea. He leans into Tony’s touch, grips Tony’s hand tighter. “Don’t you dare quit on me. That’s an order, Avenger.”

A low huff of laughter tears from Tony’s throat. It turns into a rasping breath. “You know me, Cap,” Tony manages, his voice thin and laboured. He forces his mouth into a smile. “I’m not big on following orders.”

“Well, you’re going to follow this one, Tony,” Steve says. He sounds fierce, resolute. Nothing at all like the near frantic dread he cannot seem to keep from his eyes. Or the desperate way he keeps clutching Tony’s wrist. “It’s not up for discussion. Not even from you.”

Steve’s face is becoming hazy, like an unfinished sketch, rough lines and smudged shadows. It is becoming hard to breathe, hard to keep his eyes open. Hard to think. Nothing matters anymore.

Only the warmth of Steve’s skin underneath his fingers. Only the twisting ache beneath his breastbone, demanding to be set free. 

“Steve,” Tony says, voice no more than a broken rasp. He rubs the corner of Steve’s eye his thumb. It comes off wet. “I love you.” The words leave Tony’s lips in a rush of breath, low and urgent, stripping Tony of all masks, leaving him exposed and vulnerable. It’s not as terrifying as Tony thought it would be. “I love you,” Tony repeats, soft and gentle, a barest echo of the maelstrom inside him, tugging at his heartstrings and burning inside his throat.

Steve’s face turns ashen. A harsh gasp tumbles out of Steve’s mouth, his eyes going wide, wide, wide. He takes a step back, releasing his hold on Tony’s hand. It falls by Tony’s side in a clatter of metal.

Shame, bitter and sharp, slices through Tony’s chest. It hurts a hell of a lot more than being impaled on a jagged piece of steel.

Tony shuts his eyes, and allows his head to fall against concrete. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, his voice drifting up to his ears as if from very far away. He can feel darkness closing all around him. He doesn’t attempt to put up a fight.

With the last vestiges of consciousness, Tony registers fingers fitting themselves against his cheek, jaw, neck; urgent, insistent, trembling. Hears Steve yelling and demanding and _pleading_.

“Don’t you dare-- Tony, goddamit, Tony, _no_ \-- Stay with me, don’t leav--”

Then there is nothing. Only darkness.

***

Tony feels like he is floating.

His body is heavy, and there is a dull ache resonating from somewhere in his sternum. 

His mind is in no better shape. His thoughts are fragmented; circling and colliding with one another, offering nothing helpful.

_I’m alive_ , Tony thinks. Like it is unexpected. Maybe it is.

He tries to move but his body refuses to cooperate.

A low groan sounds somewhere in the distance.

Tony thinks it might have come from him.

His attempt at opening his eyes fails spectacularly. It is like his eyelids are weighing a ton.

He tries again, and again.

Another groan falls from his mouth.

Then there are hands - big hands, but gentle, oh so gentle - stroking along his face, carding through his hair.

And a voice, murmuring, “It’s okay, Tony. You’re safe, you’re fine. I got you, Shellhead. I got you. Sleep now.”

Tony knows this voice. He trust this voice.

Tony sleeps.

***

Tony wakes to a beeping of a heart monitor and a vague smell of antiseptic.

So. He is in a hospital. Again.

It beats waking in a cave with a hole in his chest and guns pointed at him.

He blinks his eyes open, cranes his neck to get a better view of the room when the realization hits him like a kick in the gut. The absence of pain, the bright, easy feeling that is spreading through his bloodstream, making him feel as if there are champagne bubbles floating around the inside of his skull.

Anaesthetics.

He swallows a curse, then a groan as he pushes himself up and onto his side, his fingers scrambling for the IV line.

Tony doesn’t register another presence in the room until there are fingers closing around his wrists - gentle but unyielding - stopping him from yanking out the IV tube.

“Relax, Tony,” Steve says, calm and soothing. He is leaning over Tony, looking huge and imposing, but the look in his eyes is soft, relieved, fond. He tightens his grip around Tony’s wrist just a little. “Don’t do that. You need it.”

Tony frowns. “You don’t understand,” Tony says. His voice is thin, hoarse, and high with panic. “I can’t--”

“I do. I understand,” Steve interrupts. Slowly, carefully, he pushes Tony down onto the bed. His mouth twists briefly. A flash of something awful and miserable darkens his gaze. “You suffered a massive blood loss. Your kidney was ruptured, and--” Steve trails off, takes a shuddering breath. Tony stares at him, bewildered. It isn’t like Steve to lose control of himself. “I know you don’t want painkillers, but you need them. You need-- you need to get better, Tony.”

Tony isn’t certain is it the drugs or something brittle and raw that seeps into Steve’s voice, but he finds himself nodding.

“Okay.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Steve releases his hold on Tony’s wrists. Straightens. He rakes a hand through his hair, his eyes drifting shut.

“You look like crap, Steve,” Tony hears himself say. It’s… really not what he meant to say. It’s true, though. Steve’s uniform is torn and stained with caked blood and grime. There are fading cuts and bruises already healing on his face. And there is something weary and apprehensive in the tense line of those broad shoulders, in the tight press of Steve’s lips.

Steve snaps his eyes open. His mouth curves into a mirthless smile. His eyes are the colour of the sky just before the storm. “You don’t think I have a reason to look like crap?”

Tony grimaces. He doesn’t-

A slew of images fills Tony’s mind. The fight, the building collapsing, the burst of pain as his body collided with that piece of wreckage, Steve, Steve’s face twisting into shock as Tony told him-

_Oh, God, no. No, no, no._

Tony swallows a pained noise, squeezes his eyes shut. Something bitter is rising in the back of his throat. The heart monitor starts to beep faster.

Tony really wouldn’t mind if Masters of Evil barged through the wall right about now.

Nothing happens, though.

Save the beeping of the heart monitor, the room remains eerily quiet.

Slowly, Tony peers his eyes open. Steve is staring at him. His hands are folded across his chest. “You wouldn’t mind forgetting everything I said when I thought I was about to die, would you, Steve?” Tony jokes, lamely.

“ _Tony_ ,” Steve snaps, his eyes flashing. “That’s not even remotely funny.”

Tony blinks. It’s not the height of humour, sure, but why-

_Oh, yeah. Mentallo._

“Too soon?” Tony ventures. Steve’s eyes narrow in response.

“You cannot honestly believe you are going to be able to distract me from what happened.”

Tony opens his mouth to protest. Clicks it shut. Looks away. “I’m sorry,” he says, quietly. He thinks he’d already apologized. He knows it is not enough. He fucked up. He was selfish, and he ruined one of the best things in his life.

Steve laughs, low and bitter. “For what? Saying you love me? Or staying alive and giving me a chance to reply?”

Tony winces inwardly. Forces his eyes to meet Steve’s. “First, I guess,” Tony says, tries to shrug. Fails. “I wasn’t actively trying to kill myself.”

“That’s debatable.”

Tony swallows a sigh. Gritting his teeth, he pushes himself into a sitting position. He pulls the cowers off himself.

“What are you doing?” Steve says, frustration evident on his face. He reaches out, as if to push Tony back, but stops himself, curls his hand into a fist. “Lie back down. You’re in no condition to stand.”

“I’m not having this conversation with you looming over me, Steve,” Tony bites out, lifts his chin defiantly. He is bluffing. He isn’t sure if his legs will be able to hold his weight.

For an instant, Steve looks like he is about to call Tony’s bluff. Then, something passes across his features, smoothing the hard lines of his face into something softer, but infinitely sadder.

Without a word, Steve strides over to the chair placed next to Tony’s bed and sits down.

Tony expels a deep breath and pulls the covers back over himself. He glances down at his hands. He cannot lie his way out of this. Cannot fake calm he doesn’t have. The erratic beeping of the heart monitor is all the proof Steve needs. Distantly, Tony wonders how soon before a nurse comes checking on him.

“I never wanted you to know,” Tony confesses. He doesn’t look up from his hands, his fingers clutching the covers in a white-knuckled grip.

“Yeah, I got that,” Steve replies. He doesn’t sound angry. He sounds tired, disappointed. Sad. “What I don’t understand is why.”

Tony snaps his gaze up. He frowns when he sees the honest confusion on Steve’s face. “That’s fairly self-explanatory.”

“Not to me, it isn’t.”

“Because you’re… well, _you_.” Tony says. He is infinitely grateful his voice doesn’t crack.

_And I’m Tony Stark._

Steve’s forehead creases in a way that usually signals anger. But when Steve speaks, it isn’t anger lacing his voice. It is hurt. “I’m not a walking statue nor an idea incarnate, Tony. I’m just a man. Am I not allowed feelings?”

“Of course you are,” Tony says, dumbfounded. He feels lost and confused, his head is buzzing and he cannot think straight. But he knows he is missing something. Some important piece of the puzzle. “But I’m not exactly talking about friendship here, Steve.”

Steve hesitates a moment. Then, he sets his jaw, looks Tony squarely in the eyes. “Neither am I.”

_What?_

“What?” Tony sputters. The heart monitor beeps urgently.

Steve’s eyes dart toward the heart monitor, concern twisting his features into a grimace. “You’re barely out of surgery. I shouldn’t have-” 

“If you think you can say something like that and then expect me to lie still and not freak out, think again, Steve,” Tony forces out. He is aware how he sounds; unhinged and hysterical. He is fairly certain if it weren’t for the drugs coursing through his bloodstream he’d be shaking apart at the seams. Because Steve cannot possibly be telling him what Tony thinks he is telling him. “ _You_ wanted to talk, now talk.”

Steve flexes his shoulders, lifts his chin. Save for the flush high on his cheeks, he looks as if he is about to charge into a battle. “I have spent years holding myself from falling for you,” Steve says, quietly. His voice doesn’t waver in the slightest. “Even before I knew you were one of my best friends. Telling myself there is nothing Tony Stark would want from someone like Steve Rogers.” Steve’s mouth twists into a faint smile. It doesn’t touch his eyes. “Then I find you bleeding to death and you tell me you love me. And then you apologize for saying it.” A look of pure misery crosses Steve’s face. Tony blinks, his throat constricting around regret and shame. “That could have been the last thing you had ever said to me, Tony.”

Tony wants to apologize, but manages to swallow the words in the last moment. “I’m an asshole,” he says instead.

Steve snorts. “Yeah, you are.”

“And I know I don’t deserve you,” Tony says. His mouth twists into something that doesn’t even feel like a smile. He shrugs, helplessly. “That is why I never said anything. I didn’t-- I didn’t want to lose your friendship.”

“I think I’m best qualified to decide what I deserve,” Steve snaps. A beat later, he sighs, scrubs at his face. “Or who I deserve, for that matter.”

When Tony opens his mouth, Steve stops him with a raised hand. “Don’t argue with me, Tony. I’ve spent three day waiting for you to wake up. You almost--” Steve trails off, expels a shuddering breath. “I don’t want us to fight.”

Tony doesn't want it either. That is the last thing he wants. Lately, though, it is where they end up with a terrifying ease.

“So,” Tony says after a moment of silence. There is something - persistent and urgent and blind in its folly - building inside his chest, twining around his heart. Tony thinks it is hope. “What happens now?”

Steve remains still and silent for one moment. Then, he rises to his feet and comes to sit beside Tony on the bed.

The heart monitor starts to beep frantically. A small smile curls in the corner of Steve’s mouth.

“Now you rest. And when you’re better, we will go out. Someplace nice. And then we’ll talk. Obviously, there is a lot we need to talk about,” Steve says, softly. He reaches out, cradles the side of Tony’s face. Tony leans into it without a second thought. “How’s that for a plan, Shellhead?”

Tony blinks, rewinds Steve’s words in his head, “Are you asking me out on a date?”

Steve grins, shakes his head. “No wonder they call you a genius,” Steve says, his voice bright and fond. “You’re so quick on the uptake.”

“Yeah, and you’re a real co-”

Tony doesn’t get a chance to finish the sentence. Steve leans forward, brushes his lips against Tony’s; soft and feather-light.

A promise.


End file.
